


Molotov

by Muffinworry



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Arson, F/M, Sex (Implied), Stakeout, Violence, post-Museum mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-13 11:48:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7975744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muffinworry/pseuds/Muffinworry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first mission together is a disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Molotov

***

“How long?”

“A week, maybe.”

The bottle leaves a ring on the dusty counter. When she shakes it, it’s nearly empty.

“Merde.”

“Mierda,” he agrees.

The sniper drains the bottle and drums her long fingers against the edge of the table. He knows she’s furious about their recent setback. Anyone else would be pacing. Smashing things. She’s simply too well-trained to do anything so dramatic.

He begins to check his armour. One section is too badly dented to unbuckle – _that fucking ape_ – and he grits his teeth and tugs it over pulpy, yielding flesh. Muscle and sinew begin to knit back into place, painfully. Black wisps coil up through the wounds as they close. He fights to concentrate, to stay here, in this damaged body. Giving in now only makes the healing more painful in the long run.

It would probably set off alarms at Overwatch too, and that’s attention they can’t afford right now. He looks around the dingy, cramped apartment they’ve found.

The woman across from him is still tapping her fingers. It’s irritating.

He slides her pack of Gauloises across the table, and Widowmaker takes one, lighting it and leaning back in one smooth movement. After a few deep breaths, she offers it to him.

“Filthy habit,” he rumbles. He pushes his mask back enough to free his mouth, takes a drag, enjoying her scowl.

They both glance at the tv in the corner as the breaking news alert scrawls across the screen.

_–tional manhunt continues. No group has yet claimed responsibility for the attack at the museum, but authorities -_

She turns it off.

“Talon is not going to be ’appy.”

“Do you give a fuck?”

“Non.”

“Well, then.” He stubs out the cigarette and stands up, grimacing. “One week here. Then we move out. How are your ribs?”

Her lip curls. He suspects she’s in some pain. That gauntlet had thrown her hard across the museum hall.

“They would be better with another drink.”

The problem with not sticking to the plan is that they’re stuck in this dump, with nothing but the late owner’s supplies. Reaper examines the tiny kitchen. Shelves of cat food. Stale crackers, which he tosses to Widow. She sneers.

“We could be in a Talon safe’ouse. Clean beds. Hot showers.”

“One more bottle of that piss wine…more cat food…instant coffee, _Jesus_. Something went wrong back there. They showed up at the museum too quickly. I don’t trust it. Oh good, olives. Expired six years ago. What I’d fucking give for some tequila right now.”

She glances at her furiously blinking comms unit and puts it down, unanswered.

“Alors, we have a traitor to deal with when we return.”

He turns around and they look at each other.

She smiles.

*

On the second night, the rain sets in. He thinks about hunting; he’s hungry, and weaker than he’d admit to his partner. The drone of a helicopter overhead puts that idea to rest. One week, he tells himself. They’ve been through worse.

In the corner, Widowmaker is sitting cross-legged on the floor, cradling her rifle. She somehow makes it look elegant. As he watches, she begins carefully cleaning and polishing, a look of detached concentration on her face.

The rain is beating on the window, droplets running together and blurring the street below. Sidewalks are dark and shiny and people scurry by, faces hidden by umbrellas, or hunched over under hoods.

Their armour is laid out neatly, the way he taught her, the way Overwatch taught him. You have to know you can find it in a hurry, even in the dark.

They take turns resting during the day. By night, they avoid lights. Someone very, very observant might see the tiny glow of a cigarette passing back and forth.

If they do, he’s ready for them.

*

The ceiling has a growing water stain, and as he watches, a fat drop falls into the bucket in the middle of the living room floor. Another follows it. He leans back against the wall and exhales in frustration. His bones ache. He can feel his skin splitting; the mist rising along his jaw, his shoulderblades. The back of one calf. He stares at the dripping ceiling.

“Do you know what I miss?” Her voice is low.

“Tell me,” he grunts. Anything, _anything_ , to take his mind off the pain.

“Music,” she says, and he looks up, mildly surprised. “I think – I used to like music. The symphony. I dream it, sometimes. I’m wearing a gown and sitting in the balcony. I can’t see any faces, but I can still hear the music.”

And what can he say to that? He settles for nodding, and the motion makes him wince as he feels his jaw shift. “Music,” he says, and it’s slurred because some of his teeth are missing now. “Yeah.”

He forces himself to his feet, and fumbles with the radio until it lands on a classical station. Rich strings start to soar until the music fills the dark, damp room. He sees her close her eyes. He drags himself over to the window and keeps watch there until morning, and listens.

*

They fall into an oddly domestic routine. They kill their comms channels and wait out the helicopters and sirens. They smoke, and play cards, and talk food, in great detail, bickering about spices, as though either of them can still taste them. It’s something to do.

One evening he’s pacing back and forth, and the last time he felt this restless, he and Jack had started a bar fight together. Widow watches him, lounging bonelessly, combing her long hair. He snarls, wondering how she can be so calm. When he passes by her chair for the sixth time, she catches his wrist.

In one fluid movement, she twitches off the rest of his mask. He tries not to show his surprise. She studies him for a long moment, until he raises an eyebrow.

“Not so bad as they say,” is all she says.

*

It’s not uncommon in wartime. Soldiers can’t function at their best if they’re on edge. He carefully doesn’t think about certain other, long-ago missions. She calls him _Gérard_ once, on a long, sighing breath. He doesn’t correct her.

He falls asleep with one small, cold breast in his hand and forgets to take his painkillers.

*

On the fifth day, someone finds them.

They’ve been careful, but bad luck catches up with everybody, sooner or later, and who knows that better than Gabriel Reyes?

Footsteps in the hallway - more than one person. Closer, and closer, now stopping right outside. A key is turning in the lock.

It’s the fucking building manager. The little man walks through, accompanied by a couple of plumbers. They examine the ceiling, chewing gum, chatting, while the manager takes a phone call. Through the slats of the closet, Widow watches them through the scope of her rifle.

When they leave, he floats back inside, and settles back into his body, and it _hurts_.

He’s starving and everything hurts.

Dimly, he’s aware of her crouching in front of him.

“Salaud,” she says. A hand lifts his chin, long graceful fingers touch his cheek. “You ’ad better not leave me here alone.”

*

“Finally.”

Overwatch has announced they are shifting resources to _a more pro-active overseas counter-terrorism initiative_ , which means they’ve given up looking, for the time being.

She’s already packing up, wiping down every counter, every surface. Not that it matters; they’ll set fire to this place as they leave, and good riddance. It’s her training that’s making her check and double-check that they’ve left no trace behind.

He pulls on his armour impatiently and raises his hood. He needs to hunt, to feed, to get back to Talon and start tearing the ranks apart until someone gives him some answers.

He hesitates, turns back to her.

“It’s probably best if we aren’t; ah, if we don’t work together again. When we get back. In public, I mean.”

She gives him a long, cool look.

“Only in public.”

She’s _laughing_ at him. “Of course, Gabriel.”

“This mission was a disaster.”

“How can you say that? We drank some truly disgusting wine, and pissed off Overwatch and Talon at the same time.”

Her mouth twitches. He finds he’s grinning back. He lowers his mask and holds the door.

He strikes a match.

“Let’s go.”


End file.
